By What Bounds
by stranded karasu
Summary: Captain Jack Sparrow -scourge of the Spanish main- is captured and jailed. on-going, serious fic, please R&R ! (Chapter 2 is uploaded! yay!)
1. Prologue :: Under the Jolly Roger

Author: karasu 

Email: shinigami62@hotmail.com

Parings: none right now…prologues are nifty that way….will does make an appearance in the future thou…this is not a jack-centric fic. Okay-- you got me-- it *IS* bwahahahaha.

Archive: none outside of good'ol' FFN; Excluding my home computer (but that hardly counts, ne?). Feel free to take and post where ever you'd like, send to whom ever you'd like….. just please, warn me first.^^;

Disclaimer: characters belong exclusively to Disney and a bunch of OTHER people….I make no monetary profit from re-arranging them in my mind. However, if you would like to send me complementary muffins to inspire me….. -^.^- nay, not to pay or even bribe me, INSPIRE. *whispers* I wont tell anyone! Swear! 

Author's note: (re-uploaded it to edit the formatting...hate html formatting X_X I couln't help editing it a bit, but that's only because i'm never happy with the results, nothing to fear though-- just wanted to make it flow better...i suppose i should of done that prior to posting but some friends were eager to read it...) 

Oh yeah…the actual note….umm…never been to Inagua, considering the neighboring islands and such, I doubt it has massive volcanic outgrowth if any at all. It just suited the story. And I liked the name so was unwilling to change it, however, it IS an actual place…east of Cuba and north of Hispaniola and Tortuga by default ^_^; careen = turning a ship on it's side to clean it's bottom before the barnacles eat at the hull and sink the ship, usually done twice a year I believe.

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Prologue | : | By what Bounds 

Under the Jolly Roger

Jack stood on the top deck of his forty-gun beauty. 

Many long years had drifted past him as he plotted and planned to reclaim her, his bad fortune deterring him in ways that could prove disillusioning to any other man, but, he had her once more. All his patience had paid off, his numerous encounters with danger and death only side-dishes to spread his name: The _infamous_ Captain Jack Sparrow; never had the name sounded sweeter to his ear, never had it rung so melodiously in the passing air, and never had it held that _authentic_ golden pitch of power-- of influence. If the possession of the fastest, most notorious ship wasn't enough of a compliment to his abilities (and backdrop to his name), then surely, the idea that he had claimed her twice, was most definitely flattering. 

The humid night air cradled subtly the barren masts and shifting ropes, as the _Black Pearl_, the object of his constant and suffocating attention, rocked in her resting point behind quite a massive cliff. They were stationed for the night off the coast of Inagua and the crew had, for the most part, all rowed happily ashore to spend the gold they'd justly earned. They had numerous successful accounts with unarmed merchant chips in the area, earning them not only a fulfilling bit of gold and goods, but quite a bit of the aforementioned notoriety as well. He never _did_ understand exactly why other pirates were foolish enough as to kill men in merchant ships, when in fact, stealing the caps off their heads and leaving them in a fright was more profitable in the long run. Word of mouth was a sensational thing, and proof of it's efficiency surrounded the proud pirate like dense fog. The merchants were never too heavily armed-- and the struggle was never too prodigious-- but once the men reached land, their tales received amazing acclaim. Suddenly the ships were bigger, faster, and all the more Dangerous, and the battles all the more bloody and gruesome. A seaman's tale would stretch the accounts of yesteryear for any land-ridden man listening, and attacked merchants were no exception-- they would tell of their ship being sacked for all eternity. Whether it's a pirate's short fight or a merchant's glorious struggle for life, men seemed to enjoy idolizing themselves-- and he was all aflutter with the tales of his sub-human and demonic disposition. 

Smirking, Jack lifted his foot off the main rail and made his way for the captain's cabin where the allure of rancid rum paved a golden path to a warm bed and a nearing, gruesome tomorrow. He had almost convinced both the crew and himself, that he was there to watch for potential threats until the crack of morn-- but it was highly unlikely that anyone of any importance might see the inviolable ship, and the men knew it well. The growth of thick, blackish rock hid them just in the unlikely case any man-o-war were to pass by, and quite frankly the area was practically deserted when in regards to royal authority. The only reason they were there to begin with, was merely because the ship was well past due for a good careening and restocking, but then, there was nothing he could do about either until the crew returned. After all, how did the infamous Jack Sparrow keep his newer men happy? Why-- simply by allowing them to crowd ashore and celebrate their successes--that is, before putting them hard at work...

With flaccid movements he walked into the middle of the cabin and after a sudden realization, slowly turned and walked back to the entryway, to bring the heavy wooden door to a close. He fingered the designs on the iron latches detachedly, and with the same absence of mind, gracelessly waltzed to his desk to light a few candles and cover them with flamboyant gestures of hand and glass.

The idle lights lit up half the cabin, but more importantly, reflected off the decorative liquor cabinet a few steps away from his desk. He stared at the faded reflection in the glass covers, however. Turning his face to get a better angle, ignoring how the strings of beads embroiled into his hair signaled even the lightest tilt. With absolute disinterest, he reached a hand to touch the reflection with a queer expression of royal revulsion and a few more sways of his fingers. He always thought it rather odd that he should never really age too much, and had lost count of how many years he'd been a pirate and how many years he'd been alive-- oddly enough he looked the same now as he did when he was in his later twenties and just beginning--he scarcely looked like a bloody brute yet-- and he found no interest at all in the irony. 

He took off his three cornered hat and tossed it carelessly it atop his desk, distracting himself only for a second before opening the cabinet and taking out an old, cloudy 'wine' bottle. It did irk at him sometimes, not knowing if his body was rotting on the insides and only posing as healthy and young to distract him. But what did it matter, It was a wonderful night, and if he was unbeknownst to a problem, he would ignore it and focus on others more deserving of his attention. He smiled condescendingly at his reflection, as if mocking it's very existence on the opaque glass, and downed half the bottle in a single gulp. He didn't seriously want to pass up the opportunity to celebrate, you see, whether it be in town or ship. That was all he wanted of the night. A chance to celebrate. 

He strolled to the bed, swaying the bottle at his side, with all the joy and worry of a man living in the worthwhile present with insignificant binds to the past. He carried with him no need for visions of neither an ill nor pleasant future. He had no need for recounts of events long gone, and he tried to bask in the comfortable emptiness. He fell back against the stiff makings, and stretched out his tense neck. Slowly, he brought the bottle to his lips once more and merely laid with his eyes closed in slight relaxation. 

Great night it was for relaxing. Two full years. Whether he deserved a celebration or not, he would have one. After all, He was Captain Jack Sparrow. Bloody _scourge_ of the Spanish Main. 

-------

The heavy sun was drawing out the third day, and so far restocking was going on schedule. They had a fair amount of salted meat, fruit and alcohol and all that was left was a few kegs of fresh drinking water. Jack stood on the main deck, sun beating mercilessly against his back, whist Gibbs walked back and forth, documenting every barrel and keg with surprising precision on a yellowing sheet of paper. 

Despite an uncharacteristic delay, the last of the men had finally arrived -- remains of joyous grins painted carelessly across their charred faces as they rowed nearer to the _Pearl_-- the rest were lifting the heavy sails to ready the ship for a short trip into the other side of the bleak, rocky island. Inagua was an odd Island, at best. Upon the cliffs at the western edge sat the settlement they so enjoyed visiting, but unfortunately, the small island had only one inefficient and moreover, _unfinished_ fort, that got little funding during it's beginning-- being so close to Cuba, they thought it ridiculous to invest in such a small and unstable location. Most of the island was unsettled wilderness that had been left as it was, for no further reason. 

The fresh kegs of water were heaved onboard, and all men quickly took to their places, whist others moved the kegs into a lower deck. It took them no great expanse of time to sink into their old jobs, their hands automatically seeping into their duties without a regretful thought to deter them. They all preferred the jobs to any other, no matter how rough it could become, under the suffocating Caribbean sun. Hands tugged at the ropes and sails and ran from place to place in guised tiredness. Jack walked to the captain's wheel, face set in a grim look of concentration. He ran his fingers over the smooth wood of the wheel, the familiar designs etched onto the dark wood always a reassuring sight. They had their supplies, so only one thing was left to accomplish before they could sail away towards the loving bosom of their one and only, the sea-- and the idea of endless profits and freedom she lured them with. They were well aware of the dangers that careening insured, but if all went well, maybe they would remain in the area and plunder southbound merchants sailing to the nearby Tortuga. They had enough provisions now to remain sea bound for no more than three months without going anywhere near land.

Jack took hold of the wheel and shouted orders for the anchor to be lifted. The men followed suit and the coarse sails turned. It was a majestic sight. The _Black Pearl _took wind, sails stretching with ardor, as they allowed the ship to be pushed alongside the cliffs. She broke through the tides, her dark hull creating unnatural reflections in the once-still water. As they sailed away, parallel to the massive, dark buildup of rock, they came as close to the mainland of the island as they could, without having to fear disaster. The expanse of rocky land subsided slowly as they passed, and as men towards all things treasured, it unwillingly revealed the rare beauty of blue skies spanning above them towards the yet unseen horizon. With each wave the waters grew less and less violent, and the white sands reached further into the steep black rocks that were becoming nothing but a gradually descending memory. They would undoubtedly be nearing the other side of the island, in less than an hour's time. 

The men methodically tightened ropes around deck, and constantly checked all vitals of the ship. Gibbs had run into the captain's cabin to submit the reports on the newly bought supplies, and unfortunately, the irregular wind patterns that insured, would keep Jack at the wheel for the next hour. He was stiff, his deep-set eyes focused on the distance, while mentally reviewing some idle thoughts and calculations. The men were terrified of a careen and he needed to get it over with as smoothly as possible. They feared any effectiveness on the part of the Royal authority, which, though almost absent in Inagua, had been more and more lively when extinguishing the few remains of piracy. None of which mattered to Jack, of course, since he was confident that they could never muster up enough skill to catch him, were he in his _Pearl_. Their continual failed attempts were providing a silent accolade, in his mind. The Pearl was the last real pirate ship in the Caribbean, and she had stayed thus for more than nineteen years now. No authority of theirs could stifle their collective fate (though he could see why they would try). They were legendary pirates. They were the best at what they did. And they still _hungered _for more. The newer ones were fools to doubt him. 

Eventually, though, the waves grew clear as they stretched themselves over the white sand, and his thoughts were distracted. The beach ran for a few feet before a web of trees covered it in shadows. Jack had found the perfect place, and he thanked whatever god there was for such good luck. 

"alright now, loves, be on ye guard " he said silently to no one in particular, as his eyes followed the island's outline. He turned the wheel slightly, forcing the ship to get as close to land as possible, and then turning her slightly to cut though it. The waters grew clearer and more docile, as the Black pearl ripped through them. She hit shallow waters and slowed dramatically -- which was enough of a sign for the crew.

The sails were being lowered and several men ran to the second deck. 

"Bring all 'er cannons broadside!!" Jack shouted after them, his deep voice scraping at his throat at it escaped him, slurred words commanding nonetheless. He left the wheel and ran towards Gibbs, who was helping with the ropes. Jack placed a hand on his shoulder, and when the man looked up, he said absentmindedly whilst periodically looking to his surroundings. 

"Get' er to tip to the _right_, we'd be too vulnerable to attacks otherwise in this location, savvy?" at Gibbs' nod he continued "I'm going ashore, mate, send half a dozen to scout the area after me." 

Gibbs nodded again in confirmation and got up to begin shouting orders, as Jack walked to the side of the ship, making his way as gracefully as any other through the men doing their appointed tasks systematically and without thought. He suddenly turned around though, wobbling to the sides, and brought his hand to his chin in a thoughtful pose. 

"oh, an-b'efore I-f'orget," he smiled at Gibbs sarcastically "I want two of 'er cannons brought ashore.." He nodded to himself to save Gibbs the trouble of confirmation, and before the first mate could say anything, he took hold of a rope, and slid down the side of the ship. 

--

Water splashed to his thighs and he could hear Cotton's parrot screeching it's way inland.

He walked into the beach and quickly surveyed the area. He had enough time to take a look around before the scouts would arrive. They would most surely be newer men, since he knew Gibbs liked to keep the experienced ones working. The blasted scouts would be on stand day and night, since the men wanted to feel safe, even if it did decrease his workforce a bit. Were it up to Jack, they would all be working, to speed up their departure from the blasted island. 

But it wasn't always up to Jack, and he had to listen to his men. 

They had already unloaded all the kegs of water into the beach, and were in the process of hauling one of the cannons. The Pearl was already keeling to her side, as they continued to put everything with enough weight on one side of the ship. Cannons, kegs, and brute force would all eventually lead her to show more of her barnacle-clad underbelly, for well-deserved cleaning. 

He could already see the scouts approaching, big burly men which he knew only by structure. He scrunched up his nose, when he realized that the men put to guard, were each more than twice his size and strength. Personal scouting would have to wait it seemed. He waited until they had reached him, bobbing as they walked, too burly to move efficiently through the shallow waters and hot sands without giving the impression of oversized, burly, tattooed and bloodthirsty ducks. They would have to do until he checked the other vitals and went to curse Gibbs back into whatever brewery he crawled out of this morning. He put a hand to his waist and pointed around the parameters.

"ye'll not leave this area, and scout for anything that might look…" he swayed his free hand for emphasis "…suspicious" A sardonic smile graced his features only temporarily, before he bitterly walked away, practically stomping. What a waste of good labor, he would have to talk to Gibbs later, the old man must have been blind. Really, to place such strong men, to relieve them of duty so quickly…the man was out of his mind. 


	2. Part one :: These Reflections of Late

Note: once more, The Inagua I use…is a fictional version of the actual Island. 

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---_By what Bounds---_

Part 1 -- These reflections of late. 

"So, I yelled at 'im, 'e changed the lookouts, and _they_ attacked that night…" he said bitterly "An' tha'a'bout cover how it bloody well _happened_."

He scoffed. Slurred, practically inaudible words, echoed around the darkness before finally being absorbed by the humid air and the sepulcher-like, decrepit stone walls. The floor was hard and wet, remains of countless- and definitely not recent- rainfalls were seeping through the cracked bits of the hollow blocks, seeking escape from the omnipresent darkness. The cell was made almost exclusively of them, the old shapeless cemented stones, confined against each other, fit to accommodate moss-- that is, if anything at all could survive in such a dark and cold place. Jack smiled sardonically, his bitter smile sliding off his features with fatigue, and, much like his shape in general, it was lost to the window-less room and the clammy, biting nothingness therein. He despondently sunk his scarcely clothed back into the stone wall, the only support he had been receiving as of late. The strings of beads nipped at his back, and the mass of dirtied hair offered no comfort for his head. 

"thaut'a-be tha'worst -accoun'- of 'ill fortune, I've yet heard told!"

There was audible movement in the cell next to him, and Jack nodded silently, pulling his hat over his face to prevent damage from coming to it-- rather than to shelter his eyes from the absence of light. "you're telling _me_, mate" he mumbled sarcastically.

"wher' be the res' of ye crew?" 

Jack hardly moved, his grim voice having crawled back into the depths of his being like a small tired creature, unwilling to come back out. His hat felt as if it would cave in, his senses the only thing alive, and his mind the only thing constantly assaulted by the nothing. Actually, by any honorable man's codes, the crew's fate would rest on his conscience, their deaths would have to eat at his soul slowly, insatiable and ever destroying-- But they didn't. They didn't--His men were better off than he. He felt no guilt for them. After a minute's time, he found the drive to answer, but his words were dipped in pity he wasn't even aware he had, a somber reply whispered into the sedentary bleakness, well past its intended time. Whether it was pity for himself, or pity for the crew, he wasn't really sure. Nor did he care to consider anything past that. He realized the reply probably hadn't reached the other man, and repeated it, tongue sharpened and cold. 

"they be in other cells, mate, they be _wait~ing_ for the gallows. like_ I _await mines ~_own~_"

The other man said nothing, and Jack didn't care to wonder whether this time he was heard. The man soon spoke up again however, having found the incentive to blabber about some like-incident or other. Jack had heard the story once before, it was one of the many tales that were passed around from sailor to sailor, that had little to no basis on real life. Jack pondered listening to the trifle tale with bitterly despondent indifference-- He groaned, instead and caved further against his rough backing.

Unfortunately, the last two hours, had been laden with his last attempt to escape going awry. The man in the next cell, who he was surprised to know about, had not missed the ear-splitting noise, as Jack, in a moment of absolute desperation, attempted to fit himself between the bars. The man had promptly inquired thereafter, as to Jack's identity, his life-- his capture. Jack didn't care, he was desperate, and he needed contact with the outside world, a break from the nagging redundancy of every-day life in an inescapable black stone-and-iron box, so at first it seemed that telling the man about his misfortunes, would be like admitting defeat. He had thought it over, however, and he figured it would do no harm in the end. This, was just proved to be wrong. To the man, it was just another tale, drowned in lies. Jack certainly did not lie, avoid, maybe. He knew in the back of his mind, _that_ would have been the outcome, since people seemed only to believe what they desired to be so. That didn't mean, however, that it wasn't worth trying, in order to preserve his sanity. 

He burrowed his face into the hat, its dusty smell was reassuring-- days and nights of pleasure and travel were twisted unto every thread and stiff strand that made the old hat; however, it seemed a shame that he had no desire to embrace the suffocating effluvium-like familiarity of nostalgia any more than he just had. He feared he would die in the box, before ever reaching the gallows. He bordered on being taunted with his love for freedom, and all the good luck that had previously embraced his travels, was now pricking at him in the form of lecherous memories. At first he was not content to sit and wait for his death, reminiscing sadly about his life; however, it seemed the world wanted none of him, and reassured him of it with every continual failed escape. What more could he do now, that he was legitimately stuck there. 

The man in the next cell continued the tale of ships sunk in the middle of the Ocean by mystical forces, and Jack found himself suddenly wishing that he had fallen victim to them-- rather than to the sordid torture they had devised for him, here. He could almost laugh at the idea, if it didn't pain him so much; Irony seemed to follow Jack with abandon, and this was it, this would be the end of it all. 

He took off his hat and threw it to the side of the cell. His arms fell flaccid next to him. It physically hurt to admit he could not escape, that he was trapped-- there was not even a window, and scarcely even a door. This end should have been expected, he supposed, but this time he hadn't even the idea of hope, to lift his spirits. The difference between the previous captures, and this _very_ unfortunate one, was that they captured him-- and managed to take his pearl. The burned her down, they _destroyed_ his only reason for escape whilst he watched--they had taken his freedom, and set her ablaze upon shallow waters. And that was almost a week past.

"…an'a unlucky basta'ds jus' fell to 'da depths of Davy Jones' locka'. Mo'bid beast she was, takin' men and ships alike! Wait a second-- how's it they even faun' ya? Seems a'tad bit unlikely by me figurin' "

Jack densely nodded out of his reverie, and after a few seconds, he mumbled a random prevaricate. He did not want to think anymore about it-- and all his accounts would go wasted on the man beside him. "They were just lucky, says I, no man could'a taken me pearl with'out the devil's luck on 'is back" he almost-lied.

This seemed to silence the man, and Jack tried not to groan as the memories came to despoil the last of his resistance. His mind reverted to the week prior once more, recounting torturously the last days of his freedom, the last hours before capture. _Capture_, what a horrible word.

---

Jack stood in idle watch, facing the Pearl as her crew continued the torturous task of scraping small iron latches against the exposed, shallow imperfections of each individual stave. Dusk was taking prisoner the second day-- the red and orange fragments of light were fading quickly, pulled back against the falling horizon, as the men attempted to finish. They were groping for an end, they had only a few feet left of scraping, before they could climb down from their suspended locations, and enjoy a full night's rest. Unfortunately, two days with little-to-no-rest was weakening them, and the very little food they had consumed was doing nothing to ease their spirits of such work. The only thought keeping them going, was the promise of departure.

They sat on uncomfortable boards of aging wood, suspended from the top of the tilted hull by worn ropes, graying and split. Scraping and scraping at the hull, until all had been removed, and all it's surface holes and cracks were exposed to the biting, salty air that cradled them with ease. They would hopefully rest tonight, and the holes and scrapes would be covered by a fresh coat of paint in the morning--only to keep other creatures from digging into the supple insides of the wood, and becoming an undetected problem later on. It was all routine, but the fact that the _Pearl _hadn't been cleaned in almost a full two years' time, had caused a weighty number of barnacles to attach themselves like parasites, swallowing the Pearl's underbelly-- hardened clumps slowing and braking through her mercilessly. 

Jack walked back to shore, the sun lay floating just atop the horizon like a red disk that threatened to fall under the waters of the distance; It was held by that thin strip of divide- no longer suspended by time nor the will of men, and truth be told, he would rather be examining maps than taunting his crew with his less physically-demanding job. Once the night fell, he would loose his chance to do anything of use, and he was hoping this would be the last night spent on the sandy folds of Inagua's forgotten coast. He grew impatient with the hours, careening had always served to be a bother. It made both him and his ship gullible to anyone passing, and tired his men; truth be told, the only reason why it was to be done, was because it was definitely favorable to the alternative. It was better to careen, he'd been taught, than be lost to the sea later on. And so he believed, then. 

Jack sat on the warm sand, ruffled white shirt moving in rhythm with the idle wind. He had a few of his supplies brought to land, just in case he found some idle time. He sat with his back against a tall palm, wherein several maps were tied with rope, as to prevent them from flying off. He gently felt for one, nimble fingers adorned with a myriad of rings, delicately untying the knots with obviously flamboyant gestures. He unrolled it over the sand, and reached back for a piece of dark lead standing buried in the sand-- seeming like nothing less than a twig protruding unnaturally where little else would grow.

He glanced at the map, and circled his new destination. Several markings adorned the map's surface, harsh black messages and "_x_"s raping the beautiful printing, creating a harsh, unnatural contrast on it's surface. He straightened his bothersome mustache out of compulsion rather than need. Their new destination, he had decided in a brief inspiration, was to be nearer to the gulf. He was growing tired of ships fresh from England, crossing their paths-- quite frankly, he thought it was unwise not to avoid them. They were doing a fine impersonation of crowding ants, overbearing and unpredictable in their numbers, and he did not want to shorten his career as a Scourge and a Pirate.

He could spend a total of two months in the gulf, he had previously estimated, before having to return-- enough time to secure a minimum of two ships-- granted, they might not be carrying more than food and supplies, but that would be enough . More time in deep water, meant more potential for riches. Jack made a note to himself on the map-- a random scribbling in regards to trade routes to New Orleans, and smiled subtly, closing the map again, and delicately tying it back to the Palm's bark. Only three prominent routes, he figured he had a good bet. He would plan a trip back to Isle de la Morte after that, to check the little remains of the treasure-- granted, only if their winnings would supply the trip. He could finish the renovations on his Pearl with that gold, and make 'er as brilliant as she had been before. He noted a few of the sails needed mending, and she had been collecting more water than was necessary. 

After recording the changes in a new piece of paper, folded in with the map itself, he stuck the charcoal on the ground, and stood up; stiff, immobile arches in the sand forcing him to loose his balance temporarily, as he set forth to continue monitoring the advances his men were making. He wobbled a bit, unaccustomed to being without the constant rocking of the floor beneath him, his arms flailing for a few seconds before his balance was regained. He put a hand to his waist band, and walked until he faced the full side of the ship once more, and the numerous men dangling from her, wishing they would finish already; 

They were costing him valuable time. 

__ __ __ __

_*__*__*_

After the men ended, only an hour after nightfall, they had sat around a huge fire, drinking to their hearts content, celebrating their two straight days of work with the fresh water they knew would spoil. A few drunk rum, and all laughed and told of stories, moving lips and dirtied, unkempt beards illuminated by the glow of the fire, their golden and iron-clad jewelry sparkling in the shallow twilight. Tired laughter and low shouts were carried by the wind, hanging above their heads, barrels lay scattered around the white sand. A few had passed out from exhaustion, and slowly, one by one, they were falling prey to sleep. The scouts had been changed and now, three older and more fragile crewmembers stood at the perimeters, watching at full attention, one dubbed over with sleep, pistol cocked at his side as he rested half sitting in the dark. 

That's when it happened. 

Shots deafened the night, and the woken men looked at each other in absolute confusion, before realization hit them, and they sundered to the cannons sinking in the sand. Alien shouts bombarded them, carrying across the silent beach, and they hectically struggled to align the cannons against a fusillade of oncoming cries and shots. What seemed like a sea of shadows, one fluid oncoming of not-men, ran between the palm-bound outgrowth with alacrity, their muskets striking dead the lookouts--who were quickly drowned under their numbers. 

Jack ran to the front, pistol unsheathed., and firing all those that would come near the cannons, they fired at the masses, deterred them, as swords and muskets reflected through the night, reflected the unforgiving cries. They fought mercilessly, Jack shouted and ordered, as the blur of men ran towards them, dropping dead as they descended past the declivity, and being replaced by yet more obscure bands of figures. Always oncoming. 

It was then, that he sensed a new light, an onslaught of light in the distance, his eyes widened and he turned his head, pistol still pointed-- what he saw left him immobile. The _Pearl_. Flames were seeping through the staves, consuming her hull and climbing up the mast. Waving through the sails in the wind. It hit him. 

He forgot about all, and ran frantically towards the _Pearl_, as if that could prevent her from burning in the nothingness. The battle raged around him, and he yelled and cursed. The Mast fell, and Jack felt as he did as well. His knees almost gave way, and al he could do was stare at her shape in the distance, eyes wide as he looked at her from his place amidst the slaughter. 

--

Jack sighed, as the memories faded. He could scarcely remember what happened after that, all he could unearth in his memory, were fragments of the blank faces that he himself slaughtered afterwards. Still, it had not been enough-- many of his crew lay dead; More importantly, he was alive, while his _Pearl_ was consumed by unforgiving flames. Wasn't a captain ideally supposed to go down with the ship? 

He had begun by lashing out against the enemy, then. His pistol and powder dropped to the sand, and calculated thrusts of his shimmering sword led an ill attempt to slaughter his way to the hidden leader of the mercenaries. It was after the adrenaline began to fade and the fight raged on-- that he realized his crew would inevitably loose. It suddenly became a desperate attempt to fall under. He slaughtered only to be slaughtered himself and perhaps afterwards, under the pretense of death, he could attempt to re-conquer his life, even if his _Pearl _was sucked halfway under the rigid sands. His honor held no opposition to such a method of survival, he was already accustomed to being deemed a great escapist. When the oncoming enemy began to torch the fallen bodies, Jack could not come up with a thing to save his skin, and he could think of no escape. Though fortunately they needed examples for the village. 

"so are'ye gon'tell me how they foun' ye ship?"

Jack momentarily wondered what the man was talking about, and finally remembering, the urge to try and fit himself between the iron bars, resurfaced. 

"_unfortunately_, they're not gifted with _stupidity_" he slurred, instead.

The peeling Iron bars smiled back at him, and Jack began to take off his rings, one by one. He groaned. What on earth had he done to deserve _this _of all things. Now, he really wished he had sunk in the sea-- at least if he had, he would not have to face the _helplessness_ that came with being caged. It would kill him, he was sure of it. He looked at his hands, the blackish designs still aligning his tanned skin, the few tattoos and the torn and dirtied camise on his back. He was the Scourge of the Spanish Main-- He was. He'd been telling himself that for the last week, it was starting to sound more and more foreign as time went on. He started to throw the rings in the general direction of the hat, one by one they all missed. 

"but I tell ye, mate, I sure wish _I _was"

He sighed. he wanted desperately to get out. 

The man began his idle talk once more, and Jack's thoughts turned to the crew.

Who knew how many of them had met the embracing, all-too-willing affection of the gallows, and who knew how long before his own lifeless body would be sentenced to hang from a cliff, celebrated by the mediocre masses. The punishment no longer carried the fictitious pretense to warn pirates, seeing as there were scarcely pirates left to warn, and the re-located corpses would be at best viewed from resident-laden areas of the port and half the village. Never from the sea, nor by incoming merchant ships. It was the morbid pastime of the law-abiding and land-bound, it seemed, and it made him cringe to know, that at one point those hanging corpses had all the immortality of freedom, glimmering at them from beyond the British Naval ships, and the suffocating, simplistic village-life. 

He reached for his rings again, and once more began tossing them towards the hat. 

He was positive that his own capture had gained a certain amount of temporal publicity for whom ever locked his iron door, however, and hopefully the news would travel. He was not opposed to being saved, if he lived to see the day. 

TBC


End file.
